Poetry or Truth?
by 3seconds
Summary: Four days into his week-long incarceration after shooting Charles Magnussen, Sherlock receives a visitor. Lestrade is not the person he expects, nor the one he hopes to see, but might be exactly who he needs all the same. Set between HLV and TAB. (My idea of how the Ricoletti case got "lodged in Sherlock's hard drive".)


**Summary:** Four days into his week-long incarceration after shooting Charles Magnussen, Sherlock receives a visitor. Lestrade is not the person he expects, nor the one he hopes to see, but might be exactly who he needs all the same. (My idea of how the Ricoletti case got "lodged in Sherlock's hard drive".)

* * *

When the guard tells him he has a visitor, he hopes for John, but expects Mycroft. Instead, its Lestrade who looks up at Sherlock as he's led into the small visitation room.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock growls. It won't do to let on that he's actually grateful for the distraction and the company. "This is certainly not your division, Detective Inspector. Besides, there's nothing to investigate. There were no less than half a dozen witnesses and I've confessed to the crime. Please tell me you're not here to take a video for Donovan's amusement?"

He gestures down at his ill-fitting government issued garb as he takes a seat across the table.

"I might just. What I find odd is that you would confess to shooting a man who clearly committed suicide." Lestrade responds calmly, ignoring Sherlock's raised brows.

He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, taps one out and offers it to Sherlock, before fishing out another and reaching back into his pocket for a lighter.

"But that's not why I'm here." he continues, holding the lighter out so Sherlock can coax his cigarette to life.

The room is momentarily quiet as both men smoke.

Sherlock breaks the silence, "You spoke to John."

Lestrade smiles, "Yeah, of course. Mary made me promise to check on you."

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitch, almost returning the smile before he catches himself.

Instead, he says, "It doesn't explain why they let you in to see me. Isn't solitary confinement supposed to be...solitary?"

"Someone with a bit of influence owed me a favor." Lestrade shrugs.

Sherlock narrows his eyes, but doesn't press him on it.

Lestrade reaches back into his pocket, this time pulling out a small book. He runs his hand over the cover then lays it down and pushes it across the table. It's at least a hundred years old judging by the worn binding and the fading on the cover.

"What's this?" Sherlock asks, careful not to let his gaze or his voice betray his interest. His fingers twitch beneath the table, longing to reach out and flip through the yellowed pages. He's been alone for days with nothing but his mind palace for distraction. At this point, even an old book is exciting.

"It's a gift." Lestrade explains. "Belonged to my great grandfather."

Sherlock's brow furls for an instant. Try as he might to seem disinterested, he can't help himself.

He hears himself say, "Go on" then manages a modicum of self-control, disguising his curiosity with a long drag off his cigarette and his best 'boring, but I'll humor you' look.

"Great-Granddad worked for Scotland Yard back in the day. One of the first detectives..." Lestrade explains with more than a small amount of pride.

"This bloke took a professional interest in how they tracked down criminals. They didn't call it 'forensics' back then, but that's what he was mostly interested in - the scientific stuff. He interviewed anybody at the Met who'd give him the time of day...pestered them all terribly." He gives a wry smile, but hurries on when Sherlock only narrows his eyes in response.

"Well anyway, my great grandfather took a liking to the guy, so he tried his best to help him out...talked to him about different cases and let him question witnesses and the like. Apparently, the unsolved ones were of particular interest. He wrote 'em up like short stories, making up characters who investigated and solved the crimes. Even used Granddad as a character in a few."

Sherlock reaches out, gently flipping the book open with one finger, eyes scanning the page it falls open to. "...face white as death, mouth like a crimson wound," he reads aloud, scoffing.

"This is a ghost story, Lestrade! It's poetry, not truth!" He adds with as much disdain as he can muster, despite the page having piqued his interest.

Lestrade leans forward to peer upside down at the title on the top of the open page. "Yeah, that one's a bit different, truly unsolved. Seems no one could come up with a solution, not even a fictional one. Scared the bejeezus out of most everyone at the Yard when it happened. But it was a real case, I can assure you. They all were. I looked 'em up."

Sherlock pulls his gaze away from the page for just an instant, "Why give this to me? Surely it's a family heirloom or something?"

"Nah, the guy wasn't very successful as a writer. I think Great Granddad was the only one who bought the book...bought up half the print run since he was so enamored with being mentioned in it. Everyone in my family has at least a few copies." he says with a small chuckle.

There's a tap on the door and the guard calls out from the hallway, "Time's up, sir."

Lestrade reaches out and flips the book closed, pushing it toward Sherlock. "The guy was also a doctor, a better one than he was a story teller, apparently. Still, I think you'll find it entertaining."

He grinds out his cigarette then continues, "Listen Sherlock, if there's ever anything I can do, anything you need...well, you know where to find me, yeah?"

Lestrade scrapes his chair back, stands and strides to the door. He gives it a brisk wrap and steps back to allow the guard to swing it open.

Sherlock blinks, his eyes fixed on the book. A couple of memories float back to him. One of being given a tie pin for solving a case. It was a particularly hollow token since he never wears ties. Even so, John chastised him for pointing out that clearly obvious fact. "Just say thank you," his friend whispered. Another memory is of Lestrade presenting him with a deerstalker in a blatant attempt to publicly embarrass him.

Sherlock reaches out, wrapping his hand around the small volume. There's nothing hollow or humiliating about this gift.

He swallows back the lump that's formed in his throat, silently cursing Lestrade. How can he keep up his armor when sentiment keeps creeping in around all the edges?

He manages to tear his eyes away from the book, although he still can't look toward the door, which the guard now holds open. Lestrade steps into the hallway.

"Thank you, Greg." he says quietly as Lestrade walks away.

* * *

 **Author's note:** In no way do I mean for this fic to disparage the great Sir Arthur Conan Doyal, but obviously he can't exist as a literary legend in the BBC Sherlock universe, so this is just my solution to the problem. ...and Lestrade's line about "pestering everyone at the Met" is just meant to be him taking a little dig at Sherlock. :)

This may be the first in a series of little missing scenes leading up to the Abominable Bride, all of which will feature at least one line of dialogue from the special. (Basically the building blocks Sherlock pulled from while building the story in his mind palace.) Please review and let me know if you'd like more...


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